


Amen

by Kyele



Series: the greatest of these [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Confession, Discussion of Catholicism and homosexuality, Heaven, M/M, Reunion, Roman Catholicism, end of life, okay yes technically Richelieu dies at the end but it's not actually a depressing fic I swear, really I kind of view this as the happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 12:46:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2310119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richelieu at the end of his life.</p>
<p>(Or, the last five people Richelieu saw before his death, and the first person he saw after it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Richelieu's Doctor

**Author's Note:**

> Set approximately thirty years after [_Requiem Aeternam_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2178888).
> 
> This one comes with some notes on the timeline, since we’re set so far in the future. They’re at the bottom since they’re technically spoilers (it’s been thirty years, people died). It's not really necessary unless you like to get into the details like I do.
> 
> A subsequent chapter (I'll mark it) will delve back into the whole Catholicism/homosexuality thing. If you were on board with it in _Requiem Aeternam_ , you should be good to go here.

“Three days,” Richelieu's doctor says. “Perhaps four.”

Richelieu nods. It’s not a surprise. Oh, the exact number is news – he’s been frail for so long, he can hardly tell what new symptoms have given his doctor cause to believe that this illness will be Richelieu’s last – but he’s known for months now that he will never truly be _well_ again. He can’t remember, really, what being well feels like. His mind is as sharp as ever, and in his memories, he rides all day and dances all night. But it’s been a long time now since he moved farther than from his desk to his bed and back again. And since the leaves last began to turn, he hasn’t even been able to move that far.

It’s winter now. Part of him had known, when the first snows swept Paris, that he wouldn’t see the spring.

“Thank you,” Richelieu says calmly. His doctor bows and withdraws.

Being confined to bed has been less of an obstacle to Richelieu’s work than he would have thought, once upon a time. His chambers have always been spacious; he’s had his desk and his papers moved in, and new furniture designed that keeps all within easy reach. Then, too, he is no longer the sole architect of France’s destiny, the lone man in the eye of the storm. Young Mazarin is no longer so young; he handles the day-to-day work admirably. The long regency gave Anne scope for her political talents at last, and though Louis XIV is now of age, strong and firm on the throne in a way his father never was, he still honors his mother’s counsel. And France’s military needs no cannier leader than Captain D’Artagnan.

Richelieu has never deluded himself with dreams of immortality. Even as a younger man he’d lived a dangerous life, and for the last thirty years he’s lived with a stark example of how death can come suddenly, from nowhere, and for no better reason than chance. In one terrible year Richelieu had lost first his beloved and then his King. One from an assassin’s bullet, and one from a sudden, shocking illness that no doctor had been able to combat.

These events have remained with Richelieu these three decades, shaped the man he’s been in the second half of his life. As a consequence, Richelieu has taken care to choose his replacements early and train them well. He need not fear that France will be left unguarded when God calls him home.

With the doctor gone and no immediate demands for his attention, Richelieu turns his head to gaze out the window. It’s the sort of pause he would never have indulged in in his youth. When the Palais-Cardinal had first been built, Richelieu d kept that window closed nearly around the clock, worrying about the security of his papers, his interviews, and, of course, his lovers. He’s old enough now to value the view more highly than the privacy. Soon, after all, he’ll have to leave it behind.

In his youth, he’d always expected that this moment – the moment when he learns he will die – would be worrying. Terrifying, even. But now that it comes to pass, he finds himself oddly calm. It’s true that he’s not quite done. Not quite ready. But he’s very close. After all, Richelieu is not a young man. He’s been preparing for this day for a long time now.

And Richelieu is tired. Tired down to his bones. The fire of passion went out in him long ago – with Treville’s death, and Louis’, and the _Fronde_ , the terrible, messy civil war he’d been too grief-stricken to prevent. He remained – remains – dedicated to the causes he has chosen in his youth. But it has been a hard determination, and a grim one, that has driven him forward all these years.

Thirty years Richelieu has lived without his heart. He has done his duty to God and France; he leaves the world a better place than he found it. But part of him has always been missing. He knows he’s been colder. Crueler. Looking back now, so close to God already, he can see the grief that underlay his harshness. So often in those bleak decades has he failed to act with the compassion of a truly holy man. But at least he can say that the good he has done far outweighs the harm.

He’s long been ready for this moment. Only a few tasks will suffice to separate him from his remaining earthly cares.

Richelieu calls a servant and has them place a comfortable chair near his bedside. News will spread quickly, and with God’s blessing, he will have time to bid his remaining farewells.


	2. Anne of Austria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dowager Queen visits to bid her old enemy farewell.

“Your Majesty must forgive me,” Richelieu says respectfully to the Dowager Queen. “I am unable to rise.”

“Of all the things I have to forgive you for, I suspect this is the least,” Anne says with a smile, allowing her woman to help her settle into the easy chair placed next to Richelieu’s bed. Anne of Austria is a mature woman now, slightly past her prime, but her gaze is just as piercing as it was in her youth.

“Leave us,” she murmurs to her waiting woman. “I will call if I want you.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” the woman answers, dipping a curtsey and going.

“Is there any hope?” Anne asks. She makes no attempt at gentleness. It was never in her nature, but when her husband was alive, she learned to pretend it. After his death, as regent for her son, she discarded it gladly.

“None at all,” Richelieu answers in the same way. It’s a relief to speak openly. He’s spent his life keeping secrets.

“I’m sorry,” Anne says.

Richelieu blinks, thrown. “I thought we were being honest with each other.”

This startles a laugh out of her. “We are,” she assures him. “Are you really surprised that I’m sorry you’re dying?”

“Yes,” Richelieu admits. “Haven’t I always been your enemy?”

“You were pleased to make it appear so,” Anne counters. “I told you once, long ago, that I believed that you always acted according to what you thought best for France. Did you believe me?”

“No. It was the right thing to say, so you said it. I’ve never thought you meant it.”

“At the time I didn’t. But I do now.” Anne sighs. “When my husband died, France was left in a very sad state. My little Louis was still a boy, civil war was threatening… I was frightened.” She says it composedly, with the distance years have given her from the terrible events of the _Fronde_ , but Richelieu can see what it costs her to make the admission even now.

He remembers that turbulent time in France’s history all too well. Richelieu had spent his entire adult life fighting for France’s stability, but Louis XIII’s early death, with his heir still so young, had been a severe blow. Richelieu had already been half-distracted with grief for Treville; Louis’ death, coming so soon thereafter, had very nearly paralyzed him. The _Fronde_ is one of Richelieu’s greatest failures.

He’d counted on having more _time_.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Anne says unexpectedly. Richelieu startles, realizing as he does that he’s fallen into one of the light dozes that have become characteristic of his declining health. Anne goes on, “It wasn’t your fault. The _Fronde_ , I mean. You did everything that could be done to suppress it.”

That much is true. Once the _Fronde_ had begun, shocked him back to reality out of his private grief, he’d done as well as he could. And Richelieu can say with pride that he had done _enough_. Louis XIV lives, he sits on the throne, and he finally rules the unified France that had been Richelieu’s dream for so long. His power continues to grow. The Queen Mother is still healthy; her touch for politics, and her powerful alliances with Hapsburg nobility, will serve her son well. Cardinal Mazarin stands ready to step into Richelieu’s own place. They will continue the work he had begun. One day, when _le Roi Soleil_ speaks, the world will listen.

Still – “I wish I could have done more,” Richelieu admits.

Anne sighs. “My husband’s death was the will of God. So, therefore, must the _Fronde_ be. It’s not one of the things I hold against you.”

“Do you hold many things against me?” Richelieu asks, a curious kind of sadness weighing him down. Once he’d encouraged people to think of him as a bogeyman, someone larger than life to be feared and respected. Now, at the end of his life, he finds he’d prefer to be seen as he really was.

Perhaps that’s part of the transition from this world to the next. God will see him truly, after all.

“Yes and no,” Anne says slowly. “My history is like a trunk. When I was born my trunk was empty. As I’ve gone through life, I’ve picked up many things and put them inside. Some good, some bad. Memories. Relationships. And grudges. Now I find that my trunk is too heavy. I open it up, and I can see that I’ve stuffed it full of rocks – most of them with the name _Richelieu_ on it. I’m too old to continue carrying those around. I’d like to put them down.”

“I should like that too,” Richelieu says, honestly.

Anne offers him a quick smile. “I’ll need something to put in their place,” she says.

“What do you have in mind?”

Anne doesn’t answer at once. When she does, she says slowly, “Do you know, in my youth, I never realized how lucky I was. There were people around me who saw me as a woman. Not just a Queen, or a Queen Mother, some kind of icon. Just Anne.” She sighs. “I do so miss you all. To the people I am the holy saint who gave them their King. To the nobility I am a conduit to Louis. And to my sons I am Mother, who is nothing like a human being.”

“Lord D’Artagnan remembers those days,” Richelieu suggests. Anne has always counted the Musketeers as allies. He hopes she will continue to rely upon them, even when she no longer wants them as a shield against Richelieu.

“Yes,” Anne muses. “D’Artagnan, the Captain of my Louis’ Musketeers. How sad it is sometimes, Cardinal, to see the passage of time. To my Louis, Captain D’Artagnan is a veteran soldier with the authority of experience. I remember him as a country boy – and then I remember that neither of my sons were yet born when that country boy first came to Paris.” Anne’s gaze has turned inward; she is looking at the past. Richelieu looks with her. “What a turbulent time that was for us. Savoy, La Rochelle, my first pregnancy… every moment so immediate, so urgent. Everything seemed as if it were so momentous!”

“We were young,” Richelieu says.

Anne laughs unexpectedly. “I was young,” she says. “You certainly weren’t. And yet you were as lively as any of us. What kept you so?”

Richelieu hesitates. “Love,” he admits finally.

“Ah.” Anne’s gaze focuses back into the present. “Yes. Love.”

“The King loved you, your Majesty,” Richelieu says shrewdly.

“Of course he did.” She sighs. “As much as he was capable of, anyway.”

“He was capable of quite a lot,” Richelieu says. “He just didn’t often show it, or know that he felt it.”

Anne looks at him for a long moment. “I was married to him for almost thirty years,” she says. “I bore him two sons. And yet I think, Cardinal, that you knew him better than I ever did.”

“He showed you a different side of his nature,” Richelieu says. “He tried to always show you the best.”

“I would like to know the rest,” she says. “Before the knowledge passes from this Earth completely. Will you tell me about him? About the parts that only you knew?”

Richelieu thinks of the young man he’d tried, so unsuccessfully, to mold into a great King. There were so many aspects of Louis XIII that had never measured up, not even to the King’s own lower standards. But though he hadn’t been a particularly good King, neither had he been a particularly bad man. And he’d tried, with Anne, to be a better one. He’d wanted someone to think well of him. He wouldn’t thank Richelieu for interfering with that carefully constructed reality.

And yet, Richelieu thinks, Louis had sabotaged his wife’s affection with his very efforts to win it. Anne had found him affected. Cold, sometimes. Odd. She remembered him fondly enough, but not, it was clear, with great love or respect.

Perhaps the Cardinal could correct that, as one final service to his first master.

“Of course,” Richelieu says, and begins to speak.

The sun passes its zenith and sinks, slowly, into the west. Inside the Palais-Cardinal, neither of them notice, wrapped up in a past that is rapidly fading from memory.


	3. Cardinal Mazarin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confession for the living and the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one delves back into the intersection of canonically Catholic characters and fanon slash. Mazarin has a confession of his own to make. Richelieu, once again, expresses some very period-atypical views.

“I used to look over my shoulder, expecting to see you,” Mazarin says. “I’d make the wrong remark to a diplomat, and my neck would tingle, thinking you were about to sweep in and set things right. When I really made a mess of things, I'd hope for it, because then things wouldn't go wrong and it wouldn't be my fault.”

“You have done remarkably well,” Richelieu says reassuringly. “I have been following your career even from here.”

“You mean you have spies in my household,” Mazarin says without rebuke. “Of course. I know all three.”

“Four,” Richelieu says archly.

Mazarin blinks. Richelieu hides a smile.

There is no fourth spy. If Mazarin doesn’t realize that, well enough. The belief in it will keep him cautious even after Richelieu’s death, not knowing to whom that fourth spy now belongs. If Mazarin _does_ realize it, all the better. It would mean he has truly surpassed his old master.

France will be well guarded. Richelieu will ensure it.

“You never cease to surprise me,” Mazarin says finally.

“Nor do you.”

Mazarin opens his mouth, presumably to reply, then stops. Hesitates. He turns his gaze to the windows, then to the door. “Can we speak freely?”

Richelieu raises an eyebrow. “Yes,” he says. “Or else what is the purpose of confession?”

“Confession. Yes, that’s it. That’s exactly it.”

For that is the true purpose of Mazarin’s visit. They might dance around it for a time, playing at their old roles of teacher and student, but the truth is that they’re far beyond that. Mazarin is a Cardinal now in his own right; the king he serves, Louis XIV, is a man grown and more than ready to rule France. There’s nothing left for Richelieu to teach. What remains is for Richelieu to compose his soul in preparation for the life of the world to come. His old student has come to hear his last confession, bless him with God’s forgiveness and purify him for the transition of death.

Richelieu waits for Mazarin to indicate he’s ready to begin, but Mazarin, inexplicably, is fidgeting and looking everywhere but his penitent. “What is it?” Richelieu prompts.

Mazarin takes a deep breath and meets Richelieu’s eyes at last. “I came here to be your confessor,” he says quietly. “But before we begin, I was wondering if you would be mine.”

“Yours?” Without consciously intending to, Richelieu drops back into his old, authoritative tones. “And what need have you of a confessor? Does your ordinary one not suffice?”

Mazarin breaks Richelieu’s gaze. His voice and posture are eloquent of shame. “There are some things a man does that no one on earth, not even a priest, could hear calmly,” he whispers. “I have always wished for your counsel on this matter. And your absolution. But I could never bring myself to speak to you of it.”

“And now?” Richelieu coaxes.

Mazarin gives a short laugh. “Now it hardly matters if you repudiate me,” he says with a trace of bitterness. “Soon you will go before God. And even though you could still ruin me from your deathbed, you won’t, because you have no time left and no one to replace me with.”

“And no desire to,” Richelieu rebukes. He exerts himself, reaching over to place his hand atop Mazarin’s in a gesture of remission. “Whatever it is, I forgive you.”

“Wait until you hear,” Mazarin says hoarsely. “You cannot forgive without knowledge.”

“Then tell me, and I shall know and forgive.” Richelieu’s other hand fumbles at his chest. Mazarin helps Richelieu draw his cross up on its chain, and wraps Richelieu’s frail fingers around it. “I am ready; speak.”

Mazarin crosses himself. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” the younger Cardinal whispers. “It has been three days since my last confession – but this sin – I have never confessed it. I have dragged it around with me my entire life.”

“Tell it to me now, my child,” Richelieu says gently.

“I have had impure thoughts. Worse. I have committed impure acts. Carnal acts.”

Richelieu says nothing, but his mind works. Mazarin has had several acknowledged mistresses. He’s confessed those sins numerous times, without apparent concern. What he confesses now, therefore, must not be simple fornication. It must be something greater.

“As a youth I had thoughts,” Mazarin goes on, voice growing quieter until Richelieu has to strain to hear. “I strove to purge them. I dedicated my life to God and prayed for his help. But the thoughts kept coming. As I grew older I rose in the church. The great Cardinal Richelieu himself took me under his wing and brought me along.”

Richelieu keeps his face still. Mazarin is looking through his confessor; he doesn’t see Richelieu, whom he styles, without flattery, _the great Cardinal_. Mazarin sees only God’s representative, and speaks to God directly.

“I was introduced to the King,” Mazarin whispers. “He was a youth – I was barely older. We grew up together. It was always the intention that we become close. That Louis XIV rely upon me as his father had relied upon my holy patron. May God forgive me!”

“These are not sins, my son,” Richelieu says gently. “These are the workings of righteousness.”

Mazarin shakes his head. His face is wet with tears. “But my thoughts, my impure thoughts – they would not go away. The _Fronde_ drove us out of Paris. I was entrusted with the King’s care. And then one day, when the King and I were alone – ”

Richelieu stops breathing.

“I was not alone in my thoughts,” Mazarin whispers, hanging his head. “Louis and I – together. And we have been together ever since.”

The words fall quietly into an utter stillness.

Richelieu lets the silence stretch for a moment, lets Mazarin gather himself. Then he asks, “Do you love the King?”

“I do.” Mazarin crosses himself again. “May God forgive me.”

“For love, there is no need for forgiveness,” Richelieu rebukes.

“But I am a man. And the King is also a man.”

“Our Lord Jesus Christ says nothing of gender,” Richelieu answers him. “He says only to love one another. If you indulged yourself with the King, if you made idle sport, if you sought only the pleasures of your bodies – those would be sins. No act done in love can be a sin.” Richelieu makes the sign of the cross over Mazarin. _“Ego te absolvo,_ my son. God forgives you.”

Mazarin trembles. “And you?”

“I?”

“You have been my patron, my guide, my guardian,” Mazarin says wretchedly. “Do you also forgive me?”

“I am a man,” Richelieu says. He paused, gathering his strength. He wishes to tell Mazarin the truth – needs to, so that his young protégé will know how truly Richelieu still esteems him. But it’s hard, so hard, even now, to speak of it. He has spent a lifetime holding his tongue. Protecting himself; protecting his lover’s memory, reputation, and good name.

But Mazarin will never betray Richelieu. And with Richelieu himself dead so soon, it hardly matters anymore.

“I am a man,” Richelieu repeats, more strongly. “And the Comte de Treville, Captain of the King’s Musketeers, was also a man. But he was to me a living reminder of the light and love of our saviour Jesus Christ.”

Mazarin draws in a sharp breath.

“I am going soon to Heaven,” Richelieu goes on. “There I will see him again, for he is waiting for me.”

Mazarin shakes his head once more, overcome by emotion. Richelieu doesn’t interrupt him or urge him to composure, the way he might have done once. They’re alone; this room is a confessional. Mazarin is allowed his moment of weakness.

Finally he draws a breath and wiped his eyes.

“Thank you,” Mazarin said sincerely.

“My son, you have no need of forgiveness, from me or from God,” Richelieu finishes. “Love your King and your country. Remain true to those things, and you will be glorified in Heaven.”

Mazarin nods once. Then he takes another, deeper breath, and a peaceful calm settles over his face. “I will do as you have said, and pray for you daily, until I meet you in God’s kingdom.”

Richelieu smiles. “I can ask for nothing more.”

Mazarin nods again. Then he draws out his mitre, settling it back on his head, and takes up his cross. “I will hear your confession now.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Richelieu takes a breath of his own, and casts his mind back. Over his long life, there have been many sins he's kept to himself, for he knows all too well that even priests have tongues. But this is the end. Now is the time to confess all.

In that, Mazarin has set him the example. Truly he has grown greater than his patron. France is left in good hands indeed.

“Bless me, father,” Richelieu murmurs. “For I have sinned…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to write from the perspective of a 17th-century Roman Catholic priest who is comfortable with his orientation is an enlightening experience. I always end up doing a ton of research :)


	4. Louis XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sun King cometh.

The King’s visit is announced first by a messenger from the Lourve, several hours in advance, to give the Palais-Cardinal time to prepare to receive him. This is a formal call, and the formalities must be observed. Over the last year, as Richelieu’s health has failed, Louis had quietly cut back on the pomp and circumstance in their meetings. But a deathbed visit has a propriety all its own.

The procession is of moderate size. Being part of Louis’ retinue as he visits his dying minister is a high honor, and the competition for it would have been fierce. After all, Richelieu is the man who more or less put the King back on his throne after a bloody civil war. He’s expanded the borders of the nation and secured them, contained the Protestant threat, replenished the treasury, and strengthened the army.

In his quieter moments, the Cardinal thinks that Louis XIV will almost be glad when Richelieu is gone. The young King knows enough of power that he must be uncomfortable being in anyone’s debt, however assured he may be of Richelieu’s ultimate loyalty.

Gratitude can sometimes be a terrible burden.

“It is truly a tragedy that God has seen fit to take you from us,” Louis says formally. He sits in the easy chair by Richelieu’s bed as if it’s his throne. His bearing makes it clear that Richelieu lies down in his presence only by his great favour. None of the other nobles who are attending this visit are extended a similar courtesy; they stand around the room, striving to look serene and assured in the presence of two such auras. King and Cardinal, Monarchy and Church, Earth and Heaven. Power, and Death.

“The ways of God are mysterious,” Richelieu replies. “But He does not desert France. Your Majesty, I place the utmost faith in Cardinal Mazarin, and urge you to do the same.”

“Hmm,” Louis says. “A recommendation from the Great Cardinal is a recommendation indeed. I shall hold your words, and Cardinal Mazarin, closely.”

“Your Majesty does me honor.” Unlike Mazarin, Louis knows exactly what he’s doing to call Richelieu _the Great Cardinal_. Thinking of Mazarin, Richelieu takes a second look. There is the faintest suggestion of fondness at the corner of Louis’ mouth, as if Mazarin’s name lingers pleasantly on his tongue. The sight warms Richelieu. There’s little he can do to interfere at this late hour, not without endangering Mazarin, but he’s reassured to see that Mazarin’s feelings are not one-sided. Life without love is cold and lonely indeed, as he well has reason to know, but Mazarin seems to have given his affections wisely.

“I am a loyal son of the Church, and have no doubts of your ultimate destintion when you leave this world,” Louis continues. “I trust all preparations have been made?”

“Cardinal Mazarin has done me the honor of assisting me in preparing my soul to meet God,” Richelieu says.

“I will fund the construction of a new church, which will hold you in honor,” Louis declares. “And I will continue to support your Academies and your Libraries. They will have the patronage of the Crown in support of your no doubt impressive legacy.”

“You are too generous,” Richelieu says, genuinely touched. It’s a magnificent gesture – Louis will realize some political gain, of course, but not as much as he would by investing the money and patronage elsewhere. “I am thankful, your Majesty, and grateful.”

Louis bends his head ever so slightly. “You have done more for France than any three men could have aspired to. For my family you have done still more. Let no one say that our gratitude is lacking.”

A gentle knock is heard from the door. Alert to this signal, the noblewomen gather up their gowns, and the noblemen their cloaks.

Richelieu cannot rise, but he exerts all his strength to sit straighter. Louis XIV holds out his hand; Richelieu manages to take it, and bring it to his lips, without assistance. It aches; pride is a terrible thing, but Louis is pleased.

The procession begins to file out. Louis will exit last. Under the cover of shuffling feet, he leans slightly closer.

“Thank you,” Louis says quietly. “Go with God.”

“God bless your Majesty,” Richelieu whispers. If he could, he would make the sign of the cross, make it a formal blessing. As it is Richelieu can only convey the sentiment with his gaze. There is very little strength left in his body. Louis sees Richelieu’s wish, however, and dips his eyebrows slowly in acknowledgement.

Then Louis rises. He straightens to his full height and strides regally from the room. Richelieu, watching, sees the sum of his life’s work brought to life; his triumphs, his tragedies, his accomplishments all made flesh. His Most Christian Majesty Louis XIV. The Sun King. Young and strong and ready to rule the world.

“God is great,” Richelieu whispers, sinking weakly back into the pillows.


	5. D'Artagnan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Captain of the King's Musketeers talks of old times, and asks Richelieu to pass along a message.

One day the records will say that the King is the last visitor Cardinal Richelieu receives in life.

They are, however, mistaken. One other man comes. But he comes alone, quietly, and so no one takes notice.

“Charles of Lupiac,” the servant announces, leading a cloaked figure into the room.

Richelieu looks up. He thinks at first that he’s surprised. But no. No, the truth is, he’s been expecting this visit for some time.

The man who puts off the cloak is, of course, D’Artagnan. The cadet from Gascony who had raised hell in the streets of Paris forty-five years ago moves slowly now. His hair is silvered, his face lined. Richelieu watches him wistfully, thinking of his own Gascon, so long dead, who had looked so very much like this. The resemblance is hard enough to bear with D’Artagnan in simple, dusty travelling clothes, swordless and without his musket. If D’Artagnan had come to visit him in full regalia, dressed as the Captain of the Musketeers, Richelieu would have wept.

“Cardinal,” the no-longer-young man greets.

“D’Artagnan,” the Cardinal replies, and gestured him to a chair.

For a long while they simply sit together in silence. D’Artagnan makes no move to speak farther, and Richelieu no longer has strength to draw out an unwilling conversationalist. He lays back and watches the shadows, counting the beats of his heart, and waits for D’Artagnan’s to spill over.

When it grows dark, an acolyte comes through and began lighting the tapers. D’Artagnan rouses himself.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve come.”

“No,” Richelieu says lightly. “You wished to make sure I was really dying. That it wasn’t another trick or plot.” He smiles faintly. “I hope you’re reassured.”

D’Artagnan has the grace to blush. As a youth, he’d been stunning. Even as a mature man his visage turns heads.

The acolyte leaves quietly, closing the door behind him.

“We have never agreed,” D’Artagnan says at length.

“No,” Richelieu agrees.

“You were my enemy for many years.” D’Artagnan leans forward, eyes intent. “But you’ve been my patron for many more.”

“That’s putting a bit strongly,” Richelieu says, amused. “I thought we were mortal enemies.”

“Are we?” D’Artagnan shakes his head. “You gave me my lieutenant’s commission – the one that plucked me from the ranks of the Musketeers and put me on the officer’s track to become what I am today. When I was out of favor with the King, you softened his temper. When I was on the wrong side of court politics, you protected me.”

“Coincidence.”

“With you? Never.”

Richelieu smiles. “I would argue with you further, but alas, I no longer have the strength.” It’s an admission. In truth, he’s never been D’Artagnan’s enemy. Even when D’Artagnan had been a young, rash boy, with no sight for the consequences of his actions, Richelieu had never been his enemy. His only enemies are the enemies of France, and D’Artagnan, whatever his faults, is loyal to his bones.

D’Artagnan sighs. “I have always wanted to ask you why. Why you chose me, and patronized me, when there were surely many others who would flatter you more and bring you more advantage than a penniless youth from Gascony.”

“Why haven’t you asked?” Richelieu asks.

“I suppose I’ve been afraid to. Afraid of the answer. But I think now I’ll regret not knowing, more than… so. I’m asking. Was it because I walked in on you, that day? Was it because I knew your secret?”

Ah. Yes, Richelieu could well see how D’Artagnan might think that. Forty years gone, D’Artagnan, then still a young firebrand – well, younger – had been engaged in a frantic search for his Captain, and forgotten his manners in his haste. Somehow he’d taken it into his head to search the Palais-Cardinal. Somehow he’d slipped past servants and Red Guards alike. Somehow he’d found his way unerringly to the private chambers in the back of Richelieu’s residence, and come straight in without knocking…

Since that day in the Palais-Cardinal, when D’Artagnan had come into possession of Richelieu’s most prized secret, the young Gascon had never breathed a word of it. He’d never used the threat of it to coerce, or sold the knowledge of it for power. True, Richelieu had held D’Artangan’s and Athos’ secret in return, but the effects on a young Musketeer would have been nothing to the effects on Richelieu and France, if the truth had been known. Richelieu had honored the young man for his discretion. The Lord knew, at times, Richelieu must have made it very hard on him.

Athos had passed on to Heaven four years ago at the end of his long life. Richelieu had said the Mass for him at D’Artagnan’s request. It had surprised many who remembered the Musketeers as the sworn enemy of the Cardinal. Richelieu had known why D’Artagnan had asked, but even then they hadn’t spoken of it.

Now it appears they will. Yes, it is necessary. Once more, to close the book on all of the ways Richelieu’s life had crossed paths with D’Artagnan’s.

 _Why_. Why Richelieu had, quietly and without fanfare, taken the young Gascon under his wing. Why Richelieu had provided the patronage that had taken D’Artagnan from the ranks of the Musketeers to their leader. Why he had provided the backing that had enabled D’Artagnan’s bolder ventures. Why he had provided the protection that means D’Artagnan is now a player and not a plaything in the great games of court, a noble in his own right, beloved of Louis XIV.

“I saw greatness in you,” Richelieu says finally.

D’Artagnan absorbs this. He’s always been quick-witted; now he nods, slowly. Hearing something else that Richelieu didn’t say. He says, understandingly, “You saw _him_ in me.”

Once Richelieu would have denied it. Now there is no longer a purpose to lying.

“Yes.”

D’Artagnan is so like his Treville. Even now, asking the questions Richelieu didn’t know he needed to answer, helping him pay his final debts so he can die reconciled with God.

D’Artagnan sighs, leans back in his chair. “Did the Captain ask you to?” he asks, sounding as if he already knows the answer.

“He asked me to look over all of you,” Richelieu says. “But… yes, you, in particular. Most of the other Musketeers had someone or something else to fall back on. Another life that waited for them. Another name that could protect them. But you were alone.”

“I wasn’t,” D’Artagnan disagrees, a flash of sadness briefly lighting up his countenance. “But… I am now.” He sighs. “I envy you,” he says. “All of my companions have gone on ahead. I have to stay behind and finish the work they left me. Whereas you and the Captain…”

Gravely, Richelieu nods. If God is merciful, he will see Treville very soon indeed. And D’Artagnan calls Treville _the Captain_ , as if the last thirty years have never happened, as if the title isn’t D’Artagnan’s by right. Richelieu feels an unaccustomed fondness stealing over him for the no longer young man, last of his cohort, wishing for his younger days.

Once Richelieu had been the one left behind. Richelieu doesn’t know if anything he can say will help D’Artagnan; he doesn’t know if anything could have helped him, when he had tried to put his life back together around the hole Treville had left.

“Treville thought of you as a son,” Richelieu offers. “The son he would never have. He saw the future in you.”

“I would not be who I am today if not for him,” D’Artagnan says. “I had hoped that you would tell him that, from me. I never had the chance to tell him in life.”

“I will,” Richelieu promises.

“And tell him…” D’Artagnan hesitates. “Tell him that I have done my best with the commission he entrusted to me,” he says finally. “And I hope I have done it well enough to honor him.”

“When you join us in Heaven – not too soon, please God – he will tell you himself that he is. I know he always was. I am sure he is still.” Richelieu holds the Musketeer’s gaze. “I will also carry a message to Athos, if you wish it.”

“If I wish it,” D’Artagnan repeats. He laughs, hollowly. “You’ll say it’s selfish of me, after everything you’ve done for me. But I’ve thought of nothing else since I heard you were dying. That you’ll get to be with him and I won’t.”

Richelieu knows the emptiness D’Artagnan is now facing. Long years, alone, with no right in the eyes of the world to grieve. D’Artagnan had been the youngest of his cohort. Even the other Musketeers who had known the young Gascon and his three companions are gone. Dead, some of them; others, never career soldiers, had withdrawn from the Musketeers and returned to their titles and their estates. Porthos’ heart had given out during the long slow horror of the _Fronde_. Aramis is in Spain, once again the Duke of Alameda; he buries himself in political and religious intrigue, shunning his old life. D’Artagnan has no one to turn to.

Richelieu knows the feeling.

“How could I think less of you?” Richelieu says gently. “I, too, have found myself envying the dead, these thirty years.”

“What did you do?” D’Artagnan begs. “Tell me how to go on, when everyone else is gone.”

Richelieu thinks suddenly that he, himself, may have been D’Artagnan’s closest comfort in the last four years. Enemies though they had seemed, someone else on the face of the Earth had known what Athos’ death had meant to D’Artagnan. That simple comfort must have meant something to D’Artagnan. And perhaps, by then, D’Artagnan had realized that Richelieu’s apparent enmity is a bluff, designed to protect the Musketeer from the dangers of being too closely associated with the Cardinal.

But Richelieu will soon be gone. God calls him, Treville calls him, and his heart and soul are once again united in their yearning to answer.

“Don’t give in to it,” Richelieu counsels. “Know that you are left behind for a reason.”

D’Artagnan nods, but he doesn’t look like he believes it.

Richelieu goes on, trying to reach him. “For me – it’s never gotten any easier. But, looking back, I can see clearly the hand of God. The Siege of La Rochelle. The Thirty Years’ War. The _Fronde._ I was needed here. You, too, are needed.”

“I’m not like you,” D’Artagnan says. “I’m just a soldier.”

“You’re more than that,” Richelieu disagrees. “Louis is a young king. He needs strength joined to wisdom. I am leaving Mazarin in my place. Treville left you in his. If you are to the son what Treville was to the father, then you will face God proudly, when the time comes.”

D’Artagnan’s face sets in familiar lines of determination. Richelieu is glad to see it. He’d chosen his words carefully, knowing well how a Gascon takes to a challenge. If D’Artagnan has chosen to take this one up, he will do it well and faithfully all the days of his life, and have nothing to regret when he finally joins them before God.

“Thank you,” D’Artagnan says. That’s all; it’s enough.

Night has fallen. Outside the windows, the sky is full dark. The candles within the room burn the brighter for it, but they burn in smaller circles, pushing back the dark less far.

D’Artagnan rises and collected his hat.

“Treville left the Musketeers in your hands,” Richelieu says. “Now I am leaving France in it, too. Guard it well.”

D’Artagnan nods once, sharply. “I shall, Monsieur.”

He leaves. Richelieu leans back against his pillows with a sigh, looking back up at the shadows.

That had been the last thing. Now he is done. Now he can die in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really the part I wanted to write from the beginning :) To me it's the heart of the fic. I hope it was worth the wait.


	6. Treville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The people you meet in Heaven.

Richelieu had never given much thought to what women endured in childbirth. Though he had been a soldier in his youth, he had always known that marriage and fatherhood was not in his future. His entry to the priesthood had been inevitable. He had wished to rise, and his thoughts had long focused on God instead of Woman. Then, too, his inclinations had been against it. While he did not find women displeasing, and had kept a string of mistresses, it had always been for the sake of appearances rather than desire. His heart had ever lain elsewhere.

Now he thinks, perhaps, he understands something of what it must be like. In his death throes, his body had turned against him. Racked by uncontrollable spasms as his control failed, his mortal shell had become a sephulcre, trapping him inside. Until, at the moment of transition, his soul had fled…

Richelieu opens his eyes. Does he have eyes any longer? Perhaps not. But he thinks of opening his eyes, and then he sees.

_What_ he sees, he cannot say. He’s still limited by words, by language, and no language of Earth can express what’s around him. Perhaps one day he will learn a different way of expression. Perhaps he will speak with the tongues of angels, and the language of Heaven will be used to describe itself.

All around him are mysteries. They call to Richelieu, tugging at his attention. His rational mind yearns to pursue them. But his heart overrides his mind. He’s in Heaven, of that he has no doubt, but he is still alone.

No. It’s not possible. He can’t be alone. After everything – after all of Richelieu’s sins, if he stands in Heaven, then surely –       

“Armand,” he hears. A voice. A well-remembered, infinitely beloved, longed-for voice says to him, “Love, I’m here. I’m right here. Turn around.”

Richelieu does. And then, at long last, he is at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue turned out shorter than I intended it to be. I hope no one minds too much... but, really, describing Heaven? Better minds than I have tried. I leave it to the reader's imagination :)

**Author's Note:**

> Caveat lector: This is AU, obviously, so I’ve taken a few liberties with history. I’ll quote history!dates below (thanks Wikipedia!) but their equivalent fic!dates are deliberately left vague because we don’t know exactly when the TV show is set, and it’s definitely conflating different periods of history already, and this is an AU, and I don’t want to lock myself down. But the fic will assume the following rough sequence of events, and, roughly, when they occur relative to each other. Hope that’s not too confusing :)
> 
> The biggest change is Treville’s death in [_Requiem Aeternam_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2178888). Historically Treville outlives everybody (dying in 1672), while Richelieu is the one to die young (1642). For the purposes of this AU I’ve switched their deaths around and now Richelieu is the one to make it to old age. 
> 
> Also, since Richelieu now lives a lot longer, I’m pushing Mazarin’s birth ([Richelieu’s successor](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mazarin)) back by roughly the same amount. This makes him more of an age with Louis XIV, and I’ve interpreted their relationship accordingly ( _ifyouknowwhatImean_ ).
> 
> Finally, I’m placing Richelieu’s later death before Anne’s, which means either Anne lives a little longer or Richelieu!Treville lives a little less long, take your pick.
> 
> Louis XIII dies shortly after Treville!Richelieu (1643, historically), which I’ve left alone, and the following civil war (the [_Fronde_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fronde)), Anne’s regency, and Louis XIV’s birthdate and majority are also all left roughly the same.
> 
> For the Musketeers, I’m basically pulling straight from Dumas: Porthos dies first when his heart gives out, Athos dies somewhat later (I took pity on him; he dies of old age); Aramis eventually chucks it all up and goes back to Spain (I’m ignoring _Man in the Iron Mask_ until I see what the show does with it); and D’Artagnan remains a career soldier and eventually rises to the highest ranks. 
> 
> Not touched with a ten-foot pole: the parentage of Louis XIV. Let’s all pretend that Aramis/Anne subplot was resolved satisfactorily and no one felt any need to think or speak of it. Okay? Okay.


End file.
